Sexless in the City

Sometimes reading romance novels doesn’t quite prepare you for a love life...

For this 30-year-old urbanite, love is always a misadventure: The Harvard Lickwit, Hippie the Groper, the 5% Man, and the Ad Weasel. These and many other men wander in and out of her life — but never her bed.

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Coming soon ...

Dahlings, I promise, I see your hits checking back for more, but sadly all the most promising phrases and post ideas to drift through my brain come only at the most inappropriate (read: laptopless) moments. Gearing up for a weekend trip to New York and DC isn’t helping either. I did at least manage to fix one problem with sidebar links, so if the “Recent Post” list has been lately spurning your click-throughs, try again.

In the meantime, read, marvel and be scared — very scared — by this fabulous, funny example of girl brain, from Emily Giffin’s novel Baby Proof, in which the heroine ponders a proper response to invite she knows her ex has gotten as well:

I suddenly wonder exactly why I’m going out of my way to avoid Annie and Ray. I … don’t want to be around anyone or anything that reminds me of Ben, period, and I’m afraid that Annie will offer up unsolicited details of Ben’s new life. Details I most certainly don’t want to hear. Unless those details include that he’s single and miserable. And there’s no way that’s the case. After all, I saw him yucking it up with Tucker. He may not be in love with her, or even with her at all, but by no means did he appear to be a broken man.

Of course I could always tell Annie that I don’t want to hear anything about Ben, but I don’t want to come across as the big relationship loser, and I would appear to be emotionally unstable if I ruled out conversation about the most significant thing to happen to me, ever. Then Annie would pass this along to Ray who, as a man, would not have the good sense and tact to keep it to himself, and would instead tell Ben what a pitiful case I am. Moreover, if Annie obliges my request to avoid mention of Ben, I inevitably will read all sorts of things into her ensuing silence. I will wind up thinking that, yes, I told Annie I didn’t want to discuss Ben, but if the report were favorable to me (unfavorable for Ben) she’d somehow find a way to sneak it into the
conversation, as in, I know you didn’t want to hear anything about Ben, but he asks about you every time we see him and he seems desperately lonely without you.

In any event, this invitation forces my hand.

And that, in a nutshell, neatly sums up the sort of hyperanalytical lunacy women are constantly processing, at the drop of a hat (or invite, in this case). Back soon!

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